


Swinging Sixties: A Cold War-Era Dresden Files Fic

by mouli_sv



Category: The Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: Cold War, Gen, Historical, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:41:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27054358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mouli_sv/pseuds/mouli_sv
Summary: A series of disappearances and murders near Fort Drum in early 1965 prompt initial investigations that lead to an unsettling conclusion - there's something out there that might not be human. The Vice President assembles a task force of those that he deems politically useless enough to set out to pasture, and those who have enough influence to get something done - and sends them to investigate. Join retiring General Thomas S. Power, scientific advisor Edward Teller, FBI liaison G. Gordon Liddy, and their subordinates as they unravel the masquerade.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	1. Power Politics

**Chapter 1: Power Politics**

**Washington D.C.**   
  
**1965**

Washington D.C. in the summer is a hot, muggy mess. A place where the Potomac, choked as it is with rubbish near the slums at Anacostia, crawls past embankments built by the Army Corps of Engineers while the great boulevards fit for an imperial capital are packed with protesters, traffic, and the odd police picket. Even as the Chrysler in Air Force blue ever so slowly moves through with its outriders shouting at the foot-traffic to clear out of the way, its occupant takes one look at what to his eyes are unwashed hippies, and lights a fat cigar. The man’s uniform is the service-blue of the Air Force, the stars on his shoulder boards those of a full general, and on his lap is a file marked _Top Secret_. A curl of cigar-smoke wisps past the general’s balding head as he examines the contents, and he looks back up as the roar of the crowds on the National Mall rises in volume. “The hippies restless, today, Bruce?”

“Yessir.” Bruce’s curt reply comes through the speaker mounted to the staff car’s plastic partition, crackling static distorting it as the staff car bulls its way past the protests surrounding the White House. “Seems today’s the day you’re a baby killer, sir.”

“Well, you know how it is.” A clipped remnant of a New York accent surfaces in the general’s voice, genial amusement tinting it as he takes a moment to look up from the files he’s reading. “Today I’m the baby killer, next week it’s poor General LeMay. Don’t see why they’re so up in arms about us, not as if we’re aiming the nukes at someone who can’t shoot back.”

“Yessir.” Bruce doesn’t reply beyond that, the car nosing its way to the gates of the White House while its outriders - military policemen in white helmets on motorcycles – try to get the crowds to fall back from the White House.

The general in the staff car puts his files away, their contents read and analysed and found to be completely bunk. The car pulls up in front of the White House, and he steps out. A salute to the soldier that opens the door, and a brisk walk into 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue while the Vietnam War protest roar on outside. In the faint distance is the chant of crowds that want peace, and in the general’s smile and confident bearing is the cocky belligerence of America fighting the Cold War.

Vice President Hubert Humphrey greets the general near his office, and the two of them move inside before the VP leans back in an overstuffed armchair behind his desk and grunts in what’s probably tiredness. "Well, Tom, it's a damn good thing you're here. We wouldn't have called you up here so close to retirement without a good cause, you know that."  
  
"It better be one, Mr. Vice-President. You know how things are, how those Commie-lovers in the Navy are _sabotaging_ SAC ops plans." General Thomas S. Power has headed Strategic Air Command since 1957, and more than once has he clashed with the Navy when it comes to budget, operational planning, and most of all the nuclear deterrent. He smiles awkwardly as the Vice President just rolls his eyes, “Look, jokes about budget wars aside, Mr. Vice President, that file that you sent me to read on the way here. That can’t be true.”  
  
Humphrey smiles a little, bald cherubic face avuncular as he watches the general have that same incredulous response that he did more than a week ago. That smile doesn’t reach his eyes, and his reply is as businesslike as when talking to a campaign donor. “I can tell you here and now that it is, General. We’re looking at something the likes of which we haven’t seen before. I can tell you right now that we have a briefing team ready. We already had the eggheads take a look at what we found.”

“What, those skeletons that you dug up? The ones that are too burned to tell what half of them were?” Power is skeptical, and it shows. The beige file gets pulled out of Tom Power’s briefcase, stenciled classification labels on it akin to those on thousands of briefing papers on nuclear annihilation. This annihilation, though, is rather different. Grainy black-and-white photos spill out onto the polished wooden surface of the VP’s antique desk, and the shapes on the photos are far from human. The general pulls out an autopsy report, crackling of carbon-paper copies crumpling in his hands as the sheaf of papers gets placed on top of the photos. “This is just a damn Loch Ness Monster, you know that. Those photos are too grainy to make anything out, and I can tell. I saw Bomber Command air recon back in the war, and this is even worse than that was. The autopsy makes even _less_ sense, talks about parts of the body having bite marks consistent with human teeth.”

Humphrey just takes his reading glasses from a case in the desk’s drawer, puts them on, and then checks the autopsy report. He leafs through the pages for a few minutes, Tom Power impatiently fidgeting for a moment before sitting ramrod straight and frowning as if to make the Vice President move faster just by glaring at him.

Unfortunately for General Tom Power, the VP is no longer a junior private. Humphrey takes a while before looking back up from the report. He takes his glasses off slowly and nods, “That’s pretty much it, yeah. There’s more, though. The skeletons that we found and the reports on them. You read those?”

“Yessir.” General Tom Power sees that the VP is _serious_ about this, and that the VP is apparently convinced that there’s something with human shaped teeth eating people in the wilderness of upstate New York. “All the same, I don’t think that this necessitates calling me here from Omaha. Not even if I’m retiring soon. Sir.” Even if the wilderness of upstate New York is a land of draftees, chemical weapons testing, alcoholics, and strippers, Tom Power’s pretty sure that there aren’t any cannibals there. Nothing _weird_ there, except for the moonshiners.

“Then I’ll have to let the eggheads convince you.” Humphrey closes the glasses case with a _click_ and slides it into an inner pocket of his suit. “There’s a briefing in one of the Situation Rooms ready to go. We’ve had another incident since I sent that file to Omaha.”

“Another-” Power’s face blotches with either anger, irritation, or consternation before he just nods curtly and jams his service cap back on his head. He picks up the file and papers, and rises to follow Hubert Humphrey as the VP heads for the Situation Room, muttering under his breath in Gaelic and no doubt cursing up a storm.

The corridors of the White House are a place of more sane discussion, carpeted floors and antique décor giving the unsettled general a sense of normalcy. The conversation here, such as Tom Power can catch it as he walks behind the hurrying VP, is more normal. There are aides moving from office to office with files marked with classification labels, all the information and sealed detritus of the Cold War. There’s water cooler conversation about Vietnam, about the race riots, about the protests, about the Senate. Things are _sane_.

Then, General Tom Power passes the doorway to the Situation Room trailing in the wake of the Vice President, and things aren’t that _sane_ anymore. The podium at the head of the room has the Presidential seal on it, the chairs are crowded into the space before it as though someone had the ushers bring in more from outside, and the bearded professorial gent at the front introduces himself as a _xenozoologist_. Thomas S. Power just nods briefly, pulls the Air Force poker face on, and sits down heavily in the single free chair in the front row.

Hubert Humphrey nods at the general and passes him by, and calls out to the presenter on his way. “Start it, Charles. We’ve got our full attendance.”

Charles nods jerkily, waves a hand at an usher waiting near the light switches, and the lights go dim as a slide projector whirs to life. The first slide is a classification label and warning, and Charles licks his lips nervously before speaking in what Tom Power classifies as Professor Voice, Nervous. “I’m Professor Charles Wilkerson, out of Miskatonic. I’ll be your presenter for the day.” He pauses and takes a look at the slide behind him, “Alright, we’re classifying this under codeword clearance FISHERMAN. The classification level is Top Secret, that is to say TS.” He says it _Tee Ess_ , as if to emphasize things, “If you’re not cleared for this, I’m going to ask you to leave the room and report to your supervisor for a debrief. Viewing this without clearance is a federal offense. That clear?”

He looks out over the room, and nobody stands up. There’s an impatient cough from one of the back rows, and Power suppresses the impulse to ask the person interrupting to _shut up_ . The professor on the other hand is more civil, “I’ll begin, then. Looks like we’re all cleared.” The slide projector clicks past a blank slide to backstop the classification warning, and the next slide is a set of mugshots. Three draftees smile out with buzzcuts under clean uniforms and unmarred helmets – these aren’t boys who shipped out from CONUS. These are newly-minted privates, in Tom Power’s eyes so new that the privates have yet to use their damn privates. _“_ This is a photo collection of the most recent set of disappearances we’ve had near Fort Drum. The three gentlemen here are Ralph Briggs, Amos Mitchell, and Giovanni Garza. All three of them disappeared from the firing range at the base while returning from basic weapons training. All three of them signed into the range, and all three of them had their weapons on the way back – there was no checking into the armory. Just...poof.”

The professor smiles tentatively, and the smile vanishes as he realizes that the attempted joke fell dead flat. Another click brings up a new slide, this one of an autopsy and a plaster mold that looks like human teeth. “Autopsy reports from near the base found another three dead, none of them matching the descriptions of Briggs, Mitchell, or Garza.” He pauses before apparently making a decision, “All three bodies were of the colored persuasion. That’s how we know.”

“Political shitstorm there.” The comment comes from a frowning man in a cheap three-piece, the notepad and the young, unlined face testament to an aide speaking out of turn. He looks around, sees the general and VP in the room, and shuts up.

Professor Wilkerson smiles nervously again, “Yes. Well, I’ll leave the politics to you gentlemen.” Power translates that as _your problem not mine keep it away_ , and decides that the prof has a good brain in there after all. Wilkerson points at the picture of the plaster mold of teeth on the slide, “There were tooth marks on all three corpses, and all bodies had missing, ah, parts. We built a plaster mold off of the tooth marks, and that’s the one.” He swallows a little – nausea or just plain discomfort rather than nervousness, this time. “The mold is disturbingly similar to human teeth.”

“So we have, what, cannibal KKK out there? Is that what you’re saying, professor?” Another question, this time from a young gent in an FBI suit with a receding hairline. “This makes no sense, and why this isn’t a state police matter makes less sense.”

“Wait for the presentation, Mr. Liddy.” Humphrey’s voice calls out from the back of the room, the Vice President getting the agent to sit back down. “This is something that’s classified for a reason, and you’ll see why.”

“Indeed.” Wilkerson shuffles a few of his note cards around, “I’m not a murder investigator either, Mr. Liddy. I’m a xenozoologist. My field is biology, not policing. The presentation is related to that.” Another _click_ , this time to a grainy photograph in black and white. There’s a figure there in dim light, the camera apparently capturing something moving past a building with streetlights on the fritz. The thing moving past the building is a hulking shape that’s vaguely manlike, and its height marks it out as automatically not human. A blocky head looks almost comically small above shoulders and a torso that seem broader than a Chrysler, and another _click_ shows that same figure seeming to stare at the camera and silhouetted against the lighting such that no face can be seen. “These two are photos developed from a camera we found abandoned near the chow hall at Fort Drum. The camera belonged to one Corporal Alexander Malcolm, who has not been seen since that day’s duty. He was night shift at the chow hall, they were unpackaging things until quite late. That figure-” The professor points at the grainy, hulking thing that seems to stare at the audience, “That isn’t a person. The scale is all wrong, almost as tall as a streetlight and broad to match. The lighting means we can’t catch a face or anything, but that isn’t a person.”

The professor smiles again, this time more confident. “I realize that this is just another probably doctored photo. Another Loch Ness monster, so to speak.” He adjusts his glasses, and another _click_ of the projector remote brings the next slide into focus.

The next slide gets a gasp or two, white bones on a plain steel examination table photographed in loving detail. A skull leers out at the audience as if waiting to bite past the bounds of the presentation, its face too narrow and its teeth too sharp to be merely human. Everything about the image makes Tom Power’s skin crawl, and a murmured prayer to the God of his Irish Catholic forefathers doesn’t help at all. Wilkerson in the meantime eyes up the audience’s reactions, and seems satisfied. “This was found buried near the fort, when we moved to expand the weapons testing grounds for herbicides to be used in Vietnam. The details are classified, but suffice to say that we cleared a lot of forest making sure that there weren’t any other bones or Loch Ness monsters around.”

“We found bones for five, in parts. Five pairs of arms, five skulls, what looks like the ribcage of a horse, and all of it chewed on.” He clicks the remote again, more bones flashing past. “This isn’t human, ladies and gentlemen. The consensus from the people at Livermore is that it can’t be. There isn’t a human precursor that had this fine a skeletal structure, and the height of some of the skeletons is also anomalous.”

“In what sense?” The accented voice that asks this comes from the middle row, “Anomalous in what sense? Surely the anomalous nonhuman part is enough?”

“Indeed, Professor Teller.” Wilkerson pushes his glasses up and squints a little, and continues with a nod in the general direction of the questioner. His arm comes up to point at the teeth on the latest skull on display, white suit seeming all too much the same color as the aged bone on the slide. “See those teeth? The roots are too deep for human teeth, and the arrangement of the teeth is all wrong for an omnivore that prefers vegetation – like a human. The arrangement, the fact that we found more teeth ready to drop if one was lost, the canine length, all of it says obligate carnivore. The spare teeth are more like a shark’s way of replacing lost teeth than anything else the gents at Livermore could think of.”

Wilkerson’s eyes sweep the room, this time deadly serious. The professor’s tone is reminiscent, at least to Tom Power, of all those years ago when Winston Churchill spoke of the Iron Curtain. “There’s something intelligent out there in New York State, and it’s not human. It’s eating people. Whatever it is, the United States cannot be left in the dark about this.”

_AN: This is my first attempt at a longer-form piece of fiction, and I aim to update a few times a week. Feedback is above all else welcomed._


	2. Getting the Gang Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which We Meet Our Completely Sane Protagonists

**Getting the Gang Together**

_“Restraint? Why are you so concerned with saving their lives? The whole idea is to kill the bastards. At the end of the war, if there are two Americans and one Russian, we win.”_

-Thomas S. Power, as commanding officer U.S. Strategic Air Command

* * *

The Vice President’s office, after that presentation and the blizzard of questions surrounding it, seems almost normal. Pedestrian. Littered with things like civil rights legislation, knickknacks from Minnesota, and the portraits of past Presidents and luminaries that stare down at Thomas Power as he walks in and collapses on the chair in front of the VP’s desk. Hubert Humphrey in the meantime chuckles at the expression on the Air Force general’s face, and takes a bottle out of the desk drawer. “Fancy a shot, general? You look as if you need one.”

Power grunts once, and then remembers where he is. He’s in the Office of the Vice President, and the VP has offered him a drink. “Yessir. After that briefing, I think I do.” A _clink_ of glass on wood sounds out as Humphrey pours one out for him, and the bottle vanishes into the desk drawer almost immediately after. “Not helping yourself, then, sir?”

“Not now, no.” Hubert Humphrey smiles ruefully, although the smile again doesn’t reach his eyes. “The missus wants me off the booze, general. I owe her that much at least.”

“Fair enough.” Tom Power nods ponderously, still thinking over what he just heard. The entire briefing was a whirlwind, and the aging general’s still working through what this means. Nothing good, that’s for sure. He takes a sip of what turns out to be cheap bourbon, and the burn helps to keep him centered as the entire goddamn Buck Rogers premise of intelligent cannibal nonhumans slowly gets assimilated. The VP is decent enough to give him the time he needs – just a few minutes, Tom Power tells himself – and the general’s rough voice is grudgingly respectful as he asks the next questions. “Now that the briefing’s over and you’ve got me on board, what now? Mr. Vice President.”

Hubert Humphrey ignores the hastily tacked-on title at the end of the general’s question, seemingly content to dismiss the lapse in protocol. The VP instead leans back in his chair and takes a file marked with the emblem of the Department of Defense from a drawer, and tosses it onto the desk. It lands on the grainy photos that Tom Power had placed there hours earlier, supernatural forms and preliminary evidence now obscured by the eagle of the DoD with the words _CRIMINAL INVESTIGATIVE DIVISION_ emblazoned on the folder cover. “The initial disappearances were all on an Army installation, and the few photos that we have were developed from the camera found on-base. As a result, the Army CID has taken the case over.”

“I’m Air Force.” Power points out the obvious with more than a little relish, “Unless you’re planning on ruffling a lot of feathers or just getting me out of the service, you’re better off talking to the army.”

Humphrey ignores the second statement, and Tom Power’s all too aware that the current government prefers him out of the way – after all, in the eyes of Thomas Power and Strategic Air Command, the Johnson Administration is far too soft on Communists. Instead of addressing that, the Vice President turns things to the more familiar ground of bureaucratic turf wars. “The Army CID is the one that claimed the investigation, but they’re also supposed to cooperate with the FBI on this. Since the dead bodies were found off-base and had tooth marks in them.”

“Still doesn’t talk about what an Air Force general’s going to be doing.” Power sets the bourbon glass he was holding down on the table, the light filtering through the Office of the Vice President’s bulletproof windows and refracting through its faceting. “I’m not someone who can handle Army CID properly, and whatever army lawyer’s on the case won’t appreciate this.”

“The CID has handled Air Force matter before, you know.” Humphrey points out the obvious again, tiptoeing around the unspoken addendum that Tom Power is just politically inconvenient enough that Lyndon Johnson wants him shuffled off. “You’re someone who’s worked with CID to handle security clearances and base administration. They’ll respect that.”

“Alright, so you got someone in the army to sign off on me being a forces liaison.” The general leans back in his chair, hands folded over a slight paunch and suddenly aware of the sweat that’s wet his uniform. Maybe the thick coat and the dress uniform weren’t the right choice here. “I need someone from the FBI. Someone to handle the eggheads. Someone to take point on the ground – I’m past fifty, I’m sure as hell not doing hands-on murder investigations.”

“I know that.” Humphrey taps the file again, this time with more emphasis. Tom Power grudgingly picks it up, and gets confronted with the frowning face of an aging scientist. He knows it’s a scientist because the photo caption says DR. TELLER, 1944. Humphrey in the meantime coughs once to get the general’s attention, “That’s your scientific advisor. Professor Teller’s been busy setting up Livermore Labs, but he’s been kind enough to arrange time out of his schedule to help with the scientific support part of it.”

“I know Teller.” Power closes the file again, setting it on his lap as the glares at Hubert Humphrey. “All due respect, sir, Teller’s just as politically inconvenient as I am. Is this an actual investigation, or is this some sort of go-nowhere panel that you’re shuffling off the unlikable to?”

“Not at all, general.” The VP’s tone of voice is earnest and smooth, his cherubic face and bright blue eyes utterly guileless as he takes the question into consideration. “Dr. Teller is someone with enough contacts in the scientific community to handle whatever might come up, and is cleared at the highest level to boot. You’re respected in the armed forces, have enough working knowledge of the Pentagon to cope with whatever gets thrown at you on the way, and are also cleared at the highest level. While scientists like Dr. Wilkerson might be more familiar with the field, they’re not as good as the political game as Teller and they’re not as reliable or cleared.”

“Mm.” Power just grunts, and doesn’t believe a word of it. Johnson and his new administration are all too close to left wing politics for the general’s taste, but Tom Power’s still a U.S. airman come what may. He just ignores the familiar ball of irritation in his gut, tells himself that this is just another politician, and says “Yessir.” Thomas Sarsfield Power takes another moment to think, and decides that he might as well ask the other questions and get Humphrey to explain some more. “What about the FBI liaison? It’s a murder investigation to back up CID in middle of nowhere New York State, I don’t think Hoover’s getting involved.”

“No, Hoover personally isn’t. That special agent you saw – Liddy – he’s your FBI liaison. The FBI is present in small number, Liddy and an investigation team. Bureau assets are mostly playing forensic support here.”

There’s a knock at the door, and Humphrey looks up briefly and calls for the person to come in. Two people walk in somewhat awkwardly, the small office seeming crowded as both of them bring in chairs and settle near General Power. The first of the two, an aging, jowly man with pouchy eyes smiles at the general, shaking his hand as he sits. “General Power, good to meet you. I think we met at the Ivy Mike tests. I’m Dr. Teller, supposed to be the scientific advisor to your panel. I have to say, it is exciting.” Teller says this with unfeigned enthusiasm and more than a trace of a Hungarian accent - and Tom Power remembers that this is the nuclear scientist that’s been locked out of the scientific community for a decade. Inducement enough, maybe.

The second person’s much younger, a clean-cut young man with a receding hairline and a stubborn set to his jaw. Power shakes his hand with much less familiarity, and the boy introduces himself as “George Gordon Liddy. Pleased to meet you, General, I’ll be the FBI lead for this case.”

Liddy’s already eyeing up the general as though waiting for the bureaucratic turf war to start, and Tom Power just can’t be bothered to deal with that right now. Instead of handling the young agent who seems to be too full of piss and vinegar, Tom Power turns back to the Vice President. “Well, sir, we’re all here. What’s the mission statement?”

Another beige file gets tossed at Thomas Power, and Liddy and Teller both crowd in close to read it over his shoulder. The opening page and a few statements from the FBI and CID are all that’s there, and all of it under the heading of SPECIAL COMMITTEE FOR INVESTIGATION OF PRETERNATURAL AFFAIRS. Humphrey taps on the table and gets three faces to look at him, “That’s your organization now. You’re investigating this alleged...nonhuman presence...in the United States, and you’re going to let us know if they’re hostile or not.”

“If they’re Communists or not.” Power finishes the VP’s statement and gets a nod from the other two of his compatriots, and continues with a dubious look at the tiny – by his standards – budget he has to work with. “So what support are we getting? This is supposed to be through CID and FBI, and we need to make them cooperate.”

“You’ll have an FBI team assigned to the committee, and Agent Liddy can handle the Bureau side of things.” Liddy nods as Power gives him a dubious look, and the Vice President continues as if he didn’t notice the not-very-high opinion that Tom Power has of the younger agent. “You’re also the man the CID unit handling this will report to. Past that, you have Dr. Teller who can rely on his position as director at Livermore. That gets you immediate support. More than that comes through me. Understand?”

“Yessir.” Power is echoed by Liddy’s crisp affirmative, and Teller just nods. Hubert Humphrey just claps his hands and smiles at the three of them, this time with the smile far more genuine than before.

“Well, then, that concludes things. Gentlemen, you have your mission and your orders. I think we’re done here.” Power gets up to leave, and Humphrey sees them all out of his office with a smile on his face as if relieved to see them go.


End file.
